


Past My Defenses, That’s Where I’ll Find You

by strangeallure



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Takes place from 1x03 to 1x05, while Michael acclimates to life on Discovery.Michael Burnham isn't on Discovery to make friends, but Sylvia Tilly doesn't seem deterred. Turns out Michael might stand to learn a thing or two from this genuine, bubbly and whip-smart cadet.





	Past My Defenses, That’s Where I’ll Find You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [thecaptainandhercommander](http://thecaptainandhercommander.tumblr.com) as part of the [Trek Fanworks Exchange](http://startreksecretsanta.tumblr.com) on tumblr. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks go to the amazing mod for organizing! ♥

Michael’s assigned quarters are clean and non-descript, two trunks stowed away on one side, labeled with some cadet’s name. The former occupant, no doubt, their belongings packed up and ready to be moved elsewhere.

She lies down on the bed next to the trunks. There’s a faint, sweet scent she’s tempted to identify as shampoo, but that’s nonsense. Admonishments long past echo in the back of her mind: parents reminding her not to put her dirty shoes up on the furniture. She ignores the impulse to comply. What would be the point?

When the door slides open, she continues staring at the ceiling of the dim room.

“Lights,” a voice calls out. Landry said Michael wouldn’t be escorted to work until morning, so it’s probably that cadet, picking up their things.

A young woman with a bright, full face and a tight bun of red hair appears in her field of vision.

“This is so neat,” the woman gushes. Not what Michael was expecting.

Smiling widely, body swaying and hands in constant motion, the woman babbles about “special needs” and “roommates” and “automatic, built-in friends” before she walks across the room to finally introduce herself.

“I’m cadet Sylvia Tilly.”

Michael ignores her outstretched hand. There must have been a mistake.

“I talk when I’m nervous.”

Apparently. Still, it’s surprising that she would say it out loud.

Cadet Tilly rolls her eyes, indicating self-deprecation. “My instructors advised me to work on that.”

Despite herself, and in a consciously sardonic tone, Michael asks, “Why are you nervous?”

For a split second, she wonders if it could be about her own status as Starfleet’s first and only mutineer, but that wouldn’t fit with the cadet’s unbridled enthusiasm about their sharing quarters.

“I'm trying to decide if I should tell you that you took my bed.” She’s obviously trying to project confidence, but there’s a little smile Michael can’t quite parse – hopeful? helpless? – once she finishes her sentence.

It’s not an answer Michael would have predicted.

“Seriously?” she asks, although it’s a fair point. This girl seems too nice, much too soft for Starfleet, especially in times of war. Michael is doing her a favor by rebuking her, giving her a taste of the real world.

Cadet Tilly, however, deals differently with pushback than Michael anticipated, continuing to talk about her allergies and how they result in chronic snoring until Michael gets up and moves to the other bed to make her stop.

The cadet, however, barely pauses before she asks Michael her name, only to deem it not approachable enough. When she suggests using “Mickey” as a nickname, Michael’s just about had it.

“No, you won’t,” she says with authority.

Sylvia Tilly acquiesces. Only then does she make the connection to “Michael Burnham, the mutineer.” She seems nervous again, uncertain, but the lines of her face don’t harden into contempt like Michael has come to expect.

It’s irritating, this little cadet not conforming to her predictions.

Suddenly, an alarm sounds and the computer announces black alert.

 _Black alert_? The term is new to Michael. Has it to do with the war?

Whatever it is, it’s obviously the only thing that can shut up Sylvia Tilly. At least there’s that.

After Michael has witnessed some inexplicable but brief phenomena – free-floating drops of water forming in the air, then splashing into puddles on her headboard before vanishing – the alarm ceases. On the other side of the room, the cadet pretends to be asleep, but her breathing rhythm isn’t quite right.

It doesn’t matter. Three days until the transport shuttle is cleared, then Michael will go back to where she belongs.

She stretches out on the bed and closes her eyes, trying to rest. The sooner tomorrow comes, the sooner she’ll get to leave this ship.

\--

The following morning, cadet Tilly lies in order to avoid working next to Michael. When they still wind up on neighboring consoles, Michael gets quite a few surreptitious glances, but not a single word or interaction.

It’s reassuring, in a way. She’s not here to make friends.

\--

The day after that, they’re both assigned to the landing party investigating the Glenn. On the shuttle, cadet Tilly sits down right next to Michael. She cannot fathom why.

On the other side of the vessel, Landry regards both of them with similar measures of disdain.

Tilly starts talking almost as soon as they take off, barely containing a volatile mix of eagerness and nervous energy.

Michael doesn’t acknowledge her, looking straight ahead. The cadet does not seem deterred.

Tilly’s thrilled to have been picked for the mission, prattling on about being “the best theoretical engineer on the ship” and how she was “fast-tracked at the Academy” because of it. Many people would try and weave this kind of information into conversation, of course, but they’d go about it less bluntly. With cadet Tilly, however, it seems less like self-aggrandizement and more like her palpable enthusiasm spilling over, her whole body brimming with the will to succeed and a need to share her excitement. Michael doesn’t think she’s ever met anyone like this. It’s mildly disconcerting.

“It’s hard to believe that this is my first boarding party,” Tilly claims.

Michael can’t help but look at her. Her glowing face looks so young, so open. Michael makes herself turn away when she says, “Not really.” It comes out slow, but less cutting than she would have liked.

The remark should put an end to this one-sided chit-chat, Michael tells herself, although she knows that several studies suggest the best way to stem the flow of unwanted conversation is not to engage at all.

“So, um I need to apologize to you.” Tilly’s voice is earnest, completely missing the vivacity of a moment ago.

Michael is not prepared for this change in topic. Apologies are hard to come by when you’re on the lowest rung of the ladder. She can’t help turning in Tilly’s direction again.

“Yesterday I didn't want you to take the station next to me because-”

Again, Tilly says something out loud that one shouldn’t, acts in a way that just isn’t done. Certainly not on Vulcan, but not even among humans, Michael is sure. Some truths are better left unsaid. She can’t help turning her head fully to look at this strange young woman.

“It's really important that I make a good impression here, and I was afraid that if I was seen with you, that would get in the way of it.” The delivery is rushed, Tilly’s hands playing awkwardly with the hem of her security vest. It’s disarmingly sincere.

Michael takes a moment to regard her and let the words sink in. Her own voice is softer than she herself would have expected. “I understand.” She takes a beat before she realizes that she can add the next words and have them be honest. “It's okay.”

Candor is a kindness, and self-reflection is rarer than one should think. Sylvia Tilly deserves reassurance for that.

“No, it's not okay.”

Tilly’s reply is immediate; not loud, just matter-of-fact. Genuine.

“It's- I have this character flaw, I care too much about what other people think about me.” Her big eyes grow even wider and there’s an almost-smile exposing her teeth, the spaces between them just a little wider than is deemed attractive in human adults. “But you don't care if, like, everybody hates you.” From anyone else, the words would seem cruel, but there’s something in Tilly’s voice that’s suspiciously close to admiration.

Michael turns her head away. She doesn’t know what she thinks, let alone feels.

“No, that came out wrong,” Tilly amends, and in the periphery of her vision, Michael registers Tilly’s eyes darting along the ceiling of the shuttle, as if she’s searching for a better way to phrase what she means.

Course and speed directions come in through the sound system, but Tilly talks over them.

“I- I think that you could help me.” It should sound presumptuous, self-serving.

“You're a nice kid, Tilly.” Michael looks at her to drive the point home. “But I'm not staying long enough to make friends.”

 _A nice kid_ sounds condescending, which is appropriate for the message she wants to send, but Michael’s analytical mind can’t help registering a note in her own voice that sounds almost like regret, or longing.

\--

And then Michael gets to stay. Gets to stay on this ship, as part of the crew. Gets to stay and help Lorca end a war she wasn’t strong or smart enough to prevent.

Gets to stay in the quarters she shares with Tilly.

“I’m still here,” Michael tells her as she enters with a small bag that holds all her belongings. Tilly gets up from the only table in the room, a mass of bright red curls framing her face, tumbling over her shoulders. It’s the first time Michael sees her without her hair pulled back. She can’t help thinking it suits her. “Hope you don’t mind,” Michael adds.

It’s a convention, a meaningless courtesy, or it should be. Tilly couldn’t know that Michael means it.

“I’m glad,” Tilly replies, and although Michael has already turned away, looking at her bag as she unzips it, she can hear the sincerity in those words.

And then Tilly surprises her yet again by declaring that she wants to be a captain someday, that she wants Michael to teach her, help her get there.

 _I got my own captain killed_ , is what Michael wants to scream, _I have nothing to teach you_.

But that’s the thing: the conviction in Tilly’s voice makes Michael reconsider, makes her think that, maybe, she does have something to teach, that maybe this is a chance to pass on some of the wisdom and knowledge Philippa shared so generously with her.

For reasons unknown to Michael, Sylvia Tilly seems to trusts her, seems to think that she can do good, that she can offer guidance. Even in prison, Michael never doubted the worth of her own expertise, her skills and abilities, and it’s what brought her here, onto this strange and wonderful ship. But the kind of absolute acceptance this cadet shows her feels deeper, like it’s about Michael’s essence, her character. Which is absurd, they hardly know each other. It’s oddly comforting nevertheless, like an antidote to Saru calling her “dangerous” and “someone to fear” only days ago.

Michael can’t promise anything right now, but she can’t outright refuse Tilly’s request either. The other woman seems to sense Michael’s inner conflict, changing the topic by asking about the book she just unpacked. A useless sentimentality to be sure. One she couldn’t let go of.

Without making a conscious decision, Michael finders herself handing “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” to Sylvia Tilly, telling her about her parents getting killed, about her foster brother and mother, about how literature helped her made sense – or nonsense, as it were – of the real world.

Simple truths, facts, but it took years for her to share them with Philippa. Yet here she is, disclosing them to a fresh-faced cadet she barely knows.

Michael has never given much thought to the human need for hope and connection. She prefers objective metrics, qualities that can be measured. That’s why she’s sure that neither colors her voice when she paraphrases what she learned from Carroll: “Sometimes, when you're lost, you're found.”

\--

The next morning, a case with Philippa Georgiou’s last will and testament finds her. Guilt screams in Michael’s head, and all she can do is push the case underneath her bed, unopened, and flee the room.

\--

She’s supposed to work with Landry, trying to weaponize the creature they found on the Glenn.

Landry calls it Ripper in what turns out to be something of a self-fulfilling prophesy. Michael dislikes the name, objects to baking the fear of attack into the way they talk about it. Maybe it doesn’t have to be a threat if they don’t treat it as one.

After Landry is killed, a theory begins to take shape in Michael’s mind.

Discovery’s just received a distress signal from a mining colony on Corvan II. They’re under attack, people getting killed by Klingons with no Federation ship close enough to come to their aid. If they can’t get the spore drive working long-distance, all those lives will be lost.

Michael comms Tilly, telling her to meet in their quarters as soon as possible.

“Tilly, I need you to do something for me,” she says while the doors are closing behind them.

“Sure.” Tilly smiles at her the way she always seems to. “What is it, roomie?”

“I suspect the tardigrade means us no harm.” Michael steps closer, a sense of urgency prickling under her skin. “I suspect it only attacks when it feels threatened.”

“But it killed Landry,” Tilly makes the obvious – and admittedly valid – argument.

“Only after she shot it and backed it into a corner,” Michael counters, struggling to keep her voice even. If she can persuade Tilly to do her this one favor, she’ll get observable, objective evidence to corroborate her thesis, she’s sure of it. She’ll finally have proof to convince Stamets and Saru.

“Tilly, we’re holding it captive in a cell, without nourishment or positive stimuli.” Tilly’s face falls and she looks down at her feet. Instinctively, Michael moves even closer until their hands are almost touching.

“When Saru came to see me in the lab, his threat ganglia didn’t react at all to the creature.” Her tone is level, but her eyes implore Tilly to understand, to believe her.

“Okay.” Tilly nods her head, faintly at first, then with more resolve. “Okay, so what can I do to help?”

“Get me some spores from Stamets’ lab.”

“Wait, what?” A visible jolt goes through Tilly. “You want me to steal his spores?” Her expression is incredulous. “They’re like his babies. I can’t do that.”

Michael reaches out to take Tilly’s hand in a motion that is completely uncharacteristic but doesn’t feel as alien as it should. As she does, she realizes she’s mimicking the way Philippa took her hand sometimes during hurried discussions in the captain’s ready room. “Tilly, I suspect that’s what the creature needs to consume to survive.” The light squeeze of her fingers is reminiscent of Philippa, too. “I think that’s what brought it onto the Glenn.”

She lets go of Tilly’s hand and her fingers ball into useless fists. “If I can give it some food, some nourishment, show it that we come in peace,” she takes a deep breath, the hint of fruity shampoo in her nostrils a reminder of how close they’re standing. “Maybe we can tame it, understand it better. Maybe even … communicate.”

Tilly’s voice is sympathetic yet firm. “I don’t know if I can do that, Michael.” She presses her lips together. “It’s a big ask.”

“Tilly, please.” She means it to have authority, but it might come out as more of a supplication.

If the creature is just defending itself, they have to at least try and understand it before they go and turn it into a weapon.

\--

A mere fifteen minutes later, Tilly comes through with a large canister full of prototaxites stellaviatori, glowing in a beautiful whitish blue.

“Stamets would kill me if he knew I was bringing you these,” Tilly says, and Michael knows she’s not exaggerating by much.

“You should probably go,” Michael suggests, but it feels inadequate. Tilly’s just a cadet, eager to prove herself, to make a good impression, and yet she took a big chance on Michael, someone she barely knows, someone few people within Starfleet or beyond would trust at this point. “I appreciate you taking the risk, but this could be dangerous.”

“Unless we get the drive online, we're not gonna make it to Corvan II. All those people are gonna die. And I can't help them.” Her voice wavers, but her gaze never does. “I can help you.”

Michael is rarely impressed by people, but this cadet is something else. For Sylvia Tilly, it really is that simple.

\--

With Tilly’s footage from the Glenn and Michael’s own experience with feeding the tardigrade, she convinces Lieutenant Commander Stamets that the creature is not a threat – and that it wasn’t an accident that they found it on their sister ship.

When Stamets agrees to beam Ripper into Discovery’s mycelial forest, Michael feels a profound sense of relief. Only a week ago, she didn’t expect anybody to ever listen to her again, and now people are not only willing to listen, but to believe her.

If the tardigrade is the missing piece, a substitute for the supercomputer needed for the Glenn's set-up that was nowhere to be found, then they might get the spore drive working long-distance. They might get to the people on Corvan II in time. They might be able to save them.

When the equipment from the Glenn’s navigation chamber interfaces with the tardigrade, Michael senses distress in the way the creature reacts, but she pushes the thought away.

They do save the miners and their families, and a wave of joy and happiness seems to sweep the ship, making everyone’s faces brighter and their step a bit lighter.

After three consecutive jumps, Stamets orders them to power down the spore drive. The tardigrade seems weakened when the interface disengages, falling to the floor. When Michael tries to feed it afterward, it won’t come forward to greet her, doesn’t even try to get to the spores she offers, instead pressing back into its cell as it sniffs warily, like it’s scared of her.

\--

In the evening, Michael lies on her bed – again with boots on, _always with boots on_ , a voice in her head notes disapprovingly – when Tilly comes in. The case beneath Michael’s bed beeps, but Tilly pays it no mind, just sits down on her own bed, giving Michael space.

Michael can’t help but look at her. Tilly’s smile is almost shy at first, but then it breaks out full force and she starts gushing: “Everybody's talking about what you did. You helped save many on that colony.” Michael noticed earlier how Tilly made sure to loudly and repeatedly mention Michael’s part in getting the drive to work, and she seems so excited now, not just about their success, but about Michael’s contribution being valued and acknowledged. “Seems like you're gonna have another reputation to get used to.”

An undefined silence settles between them, but then the case under Michael’s head beeps two more times, making its presence known. Tilly’s lips curve again, but the smile is not exuberant this time, but quiet, more knowing than Michael would like.

“I just think, if it made its way across the galaxy to find you, you should open it. And you shouldn't be afraid to open it. Because I watched you tame the most incredible creature,” a hint of awed laughter colors her voice, “and, well, you're not afraid of anything.”

Her confidence and admiration are soothing, but they’re not enough to push away Michael’s doubts about the tardigrade. She might have done the wrong thing again, even if people call her a hero for it this time.

Still, it feels good to be the cause and focal point of Tilly’s slightly gap-toothed smile and the shine of approval in her eyes.

Belatedly, Michael realizes that Tilly’s also more perceptive than she gave her credit for, because it’s true: fear is what keeps Michael from opening the case and accepting her inheritance. And it’s a strange kind of self-inflicted punishment to lie here and listen to the box beeping, asserting itself over and over again.

Tilly is right: Michael shouldn’t be afraid to open it.

“It’s none of my business, right?” Tilly says, the words almost inaudible, and leaves.

It’s exactly the right thing to do, giving Michael the space she needs to take Tilly’s advice and accept Philippa’s bequest.

It’s more than just a telescope she has been given, it’s a beautiful message of friendship, hope and trust that tears at Michael’s chest. She breathes her pain into her stomach, thankful for years and years of practicing Vulcan meditation.

“Most importantly, take good care of those in your care."

Philippa Georgiou’s parting words seem prophetic and useless at once. Cassandra’s truths remaining unheard as always until it is too late.

Michael pushes the thought away, pushes all those negative thoughts away, those doubts about her place here, about the tardigrade.

This is a win. A win Starfleet and the Federation desperately need.

She’s anthropomorphizing instead of letting herself be guided by facts and data.

The creature will adapt. Life always does.

\--

Three weeks and many jumps later, Discovery’s new capacity for long-range jumps has begun helping to turn the tide of war.

As for Michael, she sleeps worse and worse. Her nightmares are indistinct in the first weeks, barely remembered feelings of dread, but then she experiences one as clear as day. She’s in the tardigrade’s stead, screaming in pain as the hub drive chamber engages her as its navigator.

She wakes up with her heart pounding in her too-dry throat, the sharp smell of her own sweat like a cloud around her head, muscles aching with excess tension. Across the room, Sylvia Tilly is sleeping peacefully, her soft snoring a surprisingly welcome, soothing sound in the silence of their quarters.

\--

The same day, Michael approaches Dr. Culber about the possibility that the creature might be sentient, might experience pain. When he points out that she was the one who discovered how to use the tardigrade for navigation, it makes a straining pressure rise in her gut.

“A victory that maybe isn't a victory anymore, given the creature's deteriorating condition,” he adds. It’s an astute observation, making it difficult to argue against it.

Michael deflates, even though she can’t fully believe he’s right. Would she really be that selfish?

When he tells her that he’ll run some tests either way, a bit of the tension in her body fades.

\--

She’s been avoiding Tilly as much as is possible, seeing as they’re roommates, but today, their lunch breaks align, and sure enough, Tilly finds her in the mess hall.

“Hi, roomie,” Tilly is cheerful when she sets down her tray in front of Michael and sits down across from her.

“Oh my God, you look awful.” Leave it to Sylvia Tilly to sound exciting and concerned at the same time.

“Thank you, Tilly,” she replies dryly, but the truth is that even the acknowledgement, the fact that Tilly takes one look and just sees her, feels … pleasant.

“That's it. We're gonna have lunch right now. I mean it.” Michael knows the concept, more from novels and observation than from her own experience, but even if she didn’t, Tilly is quick to explain, “I mean that you're gonna tell me what's going on with you.”

“There's nothing to tell,” Michael lies and puts a forkful of food into her mouth. She shouldn’t trouble Tilly with her doubts. Tilly, who’s so good and excited and happy about all the progress they’ve been making. Michael is terrible company for such a kind and idealistic person.

“Uh, okay. Um, that's okay,” the excitement drains from Tilly, a different kind of nervousness taking over that Michael doesn’t quite understand but that she likes much less. “I get it. It was bound to happen sometime.” What is she talking about? Her eyes flit about, unable to settle on one thing. “There's so many interesting people on this ship, I'm sure you've made tons of friends by now.”

Of course. Michael’s been so caught up in her own issues that she didn’t stop to think about the anxieties she knows Tilly experiences sometimes.

“Tilly, it's not you,” she amends. “It's me.”

This sentence is familiar, too, another phrase directly out of an old novel, but the context isn’t quite right.

Still, it seems to work on Tilly, who repositions herself in her chair and looks at Michael expectantly.

“Well, since that is very rarely the case in my case, I would love to hear how it's not me.” She manages to smile around eating a spoonful of yogurt. It’s endearing, strangely enough. 

Only later Michael realizes that there’s a history of hurt in these words. Right now, they just get her to share her worries about the tardigrade and how they affect her. Not in much detail, but still. It’s nothing she ever would have done on the Shenzhou.

“You're stressed,” Tilly surmises, but the conclusion doesn’t feel right.

“I barely have a job here,” Michael protests, “I've never been less busy.”

“But then that gives you the time and space to actually process what you're going through emotionally.” It’s not the exciting prospect Tilly seems to think it is.

“I don't like it.”

„Really?” Tilly licks some more yoghurt off her spoon and grins. “I love feeling feelings.”

Michael isn’t sure what she means by that, but the image of Tilly looking at her, somehow smiling even as she’s licking at her spoon, comes back to her, unbidden, throughout the day.

\--

Then so much happens so quickly. Lorca gets abducted and as acting captain, Saru orders them to make multiple jumps throughout Klingon space to find him. Michael’s not sure how much more stress like this the tardigrade will be able to sustain.

She tries to convince Saru, but fails, so when Dr. Culber comms her with scan results of the creature’s frontal lobe, they go straight to Lieutenant Commander Stamets. Luckily, they manage to convince him to work on an alternative way to engage the s-drive. 

Stamets, Tilly and Michael work together, feverishly trying to find a way to navigate the network without the tardigrade. They’re making progress, and it’s stimulating, if Michael’s honest, to be working as part of a team, to be working with someone as idealistic and dedicated as Tilly. And as brilliant and resourceful as Stamets, of course. Employing science and reason to try and help the creature, set right a wrong. 

They’re honing in on their requirements, but aren’t quite there yet, when Saru enters the lab to confront them about taking the spore drive offline.

Michael tries to explain how they need an organism with an evolved nervous system that still shares enough of its DNA with mushrooms. When she mentions the human genome, Saru harshly reminds her that eugenic experiments are forbidden for a reason, that she seems incapable of following orders and that she keeps dragging Kelpien culture and biology into her arguments with him, treating him like one of her xenoanthropology subjects.

Later that day, she realizes that all those are more than valid points, but for now, the hurt when he calls her a proven predator drowns them out.

It doesn’t help that Tilly is right there to witness Michael's failure to protect the tardigrade, all the way to Saru’s final command: “Confine yourself to quarters immediately.”

\--

Shortly after, Tilly comes running to their quarters. For the first time, she doesn't sit down on the opposite bed, but right next to where Michael’s stretched out, logic and emotion warring inside her, all tangled up in each other. Michael gets up to sit next to her, their thighs almost touching.

“The tardigrade,” Tilly says, and her voice is small and full of feelings Michael can’t quite identify.

“You were right,” Tilly takes her hand impulsively. The gesture is similar to how Michael touched her when trying to convince Tilly to procure spores for the tardigrade without authorization. It makes Michael realize how long it’s been that anyone has initiated physical contact with her outside of a fight. Even for introductions, Michael usually gets away with a curt nod.

“I mean,” Tilly looks at Michael’s hand in hers, eyes lingering for a moment. Then she lets go. “It’s gone into cryptobiosis, Michael.”

The touch was so brief, yet Michael feels the loss of warmth from Tilly’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. It feels shamefully inadequate.

“It looked so small.” Tilly’s eyes are brimming wet. “Diminished.” She swallows, her lips rolling inward, making a hard line of her mouth that normally looks so supple. “And we did that.” She straightens her back, gaze finding Michael’s. “We can’t let it die, Michael, we have to do something.”

It’s like muscle memory from another life, another person, maybe, when Michael puts her arm around Tilly’s shoulder and makes a long, drawn-out shushing sound to calm her down.

“It’s gonna be alright,” she says, and there’s reassurance in her voice that might not be her own, but that’s true and innate and echoes with a familiarity that just might transcend time.

\--

When Saru visits Michael in quarters, her first instinct is to fight him, but then she reminds herself that maybe, he was in an impossible situation, too. She knows a thing or two about those.

So instead of imploring him on behalf of the tardigrade, she uses his permission to speak freely to ask him a more personal question.

“Are you really afraid of me?” She realizes now that he does have reason to be, that even though they’ve known each other for many years, she’s been more open and honest with Tilly, whom she only met weeks ago.

When he tells her that he’s not afraid, but angry, it strikes a cord in her, a kinship she often failed to acknowledge even as they served alongside each other on the Shenzhou.

With a calm she probably doesn’t deserve, he tells her about his jealousy towards her, how she robbed him of the chance to be Philippa’s first officer, to learn by her example. She's about to bristle at his accusations, but then she realizes they're not accusations at all, it’s honesty.

“If I had,” there’s an air of defeat in his gangly frame that Michael has never seen before, “I would’ve been more prepared for today.”

She wishes she could be like Tilly, apologize for her mistakes in a way that will make him feel better, will make him feel understood and encouraged, but she’s not there yet, might never be, not regarding a subject so fraught with emotion. There is something, however, that she can give him. Michael moves closer, right up to the edge of Saru’s personal space.

“You did well, very well,” she tilts her head up at him. She’s glad her praise seems to assure him, even as he looks away, like he still believes he fell short.

“She would’ve thought so, too.” For once, the words she finds feel exactly right.

He saved lives, saved their captain, going on limited information and against incredible odds. Sometimes, that has to be enough.

Michael turns around to get the case from underneath her bed, silently thanking Tilly for convincing her to open it. Saru doesn’t ask what she is doing, and she takes it as a sign of trust.

When she turns around, he’s already there.

Michael gives him the telescope she inherited from Philippa. It feels appropriate, poignant in a way her Vulcan mind would deny, but that speaks to the human heart inside of her that Sarek chided her for so often when she was young.

“It’s yours now.”

The way Saru accepts her gift, a small inclination of his head, no polite protest, like it’s a natural thing, confirms her impulse.

He touches the telescope and she suddenly feels the need to step away, like this is a private moment for him, but then he speaks her name.

The case with the telescope closed again, both his hands gripping the handle, he asks for her help with one more thing: the tardigrade.

“We have no claim on its soul. Go save its life, Burnham.” His voice is hushed. “That's an order.”

\--

Of course Tilly is there to help her, to try and make this right.

In her heart of hearts, Michael knew she would be.

Together, they move the tardigrade, a dried-out shell now, almost like a fossil of itself, to a lab with an outside port.

Tilly is careful, so careful, when they maneuver the creature onto the lifting platform connected to the ship’s hull, like she’s handling a child – or maybe something old and precious. They know so little about this creature still. It could be neither, it could be both.

They stand in front of the round dais in a way that seems somber, ceremonial, when Tilly begins to speak: “May the sun and moon watch your comings and goings in the endless nights and days that are before you.” Michael knows the words even if she doesn’t know how, like an echo of a familiar song, an old memory not quite ready to resurface.

“Are you sure this will work?” Tilly asks and it takes Michael a moment to answer.

“No,” Michael says, because she isn’t. “But if this is its response to an adverse environment, what does it consider to be hospitable?” She can’t take her eyes off the creature’s motionless form.

“This creature has traveled to the far ends of the universe. My hope is that what makes it most happy,” she looks over at Tilly, their eyes meeting, “is to be free.”

Tilly’s lips curve up into a small smile, a quick reassurance that she shares Michael’s hope, that they’re in this together.

The canister with spores feels heavy in her hand as she unscrews it, emptying it gently all over the creature, who’s too still and too small, reduced, because of what they did.

Tilly quietly activates the ejection mechanism. Standing side by side, their eyes track the creature’s ascent back into the wide openness of the cosmos, its natural habitat.

Once launched into space, the tardigrade looks like a small meteor, a hard-shelled thing surrounded by the whitish blue glow of mycelium.

But then the shell opens, like a cocoon, like Vulcan Nightclaw unfurling in the moonlight, and they witness the creature coming out of cryptobiosis, restored to its former self. Mycelial energy creates visible pathways in the vastness of space, like signposts or roads to take the tardigrade home.

And then it’s gone.

Michael doesn’t just smile, she laughs, a bright and rare sensation warming her up from the inside. When she looks over at Tilly, she sees that same exact warmth, that sheer joy, reflected back at her.

“You saved it, Michael,” Tilly says, awe in her voice. Her whole face is shining, mesmerizing. “I knew you would.”

“No,” Michael shakes her head and bridges the small space between them. “All of us did.” Her eyes find Tilly's, trying to convey the depth of her feelings, of her gratitude. “You did.”

Michael doesn’t realize she's asked a wordless question until the way Tilly inclines her head just so gives her the answer she’d hoped for.

She slides her arms around Tilly, who’s solid and warm, embracing Michael in turn. Tilly’s hands on Michael’s waist are like an anchor, connecting her to something genuine, something good.

Their mouths meet in an easy, natural way, Tilly’s lips so soft and eager against hers. Tilly’s a playful kisser, a tease and an explorer, and it’s different than what Michael knows, but she’s keen to learn, to discover, to elicit yet another breathless laugh between kisses.

If being in Sylvia’s arms feels so right, it’s only logical to stay there.

**Author's Note:**

> Like all my stories, this is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
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